The back half of Spike's body felt as if it was on fire.

He had no idea how much time had passed since Buffy had left him in this underground room -- wherever he was. It could have been hours, or days -- felt like weeks. She had not returned, and he was gradually reaching the point where his hunger was beginning to compete with the searing pain in his back and legs.

He was exhausted, in pain, and terrified, knowing that there was no way he could even begin to think of escape as long as he was so weak and in so much pain; and there was no way that he could even begin to heal, as long as he was kept down here without blood. And there was one dark thought that kept circling in his mind, filling his heart with a heavy sense of dread.

He would be kept down here -- without the blood he needed to heal -- as long as Buffy wanted to keep him here.

By now his throat was so dry with thirst that he could barely get out a sound, even the muffled, useless sounds he had been able to manage before around the gag. He probably could have dislodged the blindfold, given himself some idea of where he was -- but he had easily made the decision that that simple, possibly useless piece of information was certainly not worth Buffy's fury when she eventually came back and found him without the blindfold.

He had barely slept, unable to truly relax at all in the uncomfortable position he was bound in, kept awake by the pain and hunger that ravaged his body, not to mention the intense discomfort caused by the painfully tight piece of leather that bound his unwanted erection, refusing to allow him the release that by now, he desperately needed.

Finally, exhaustion began to take over, and he found himself drifting in and out of a restless sleep filled with dark dreams that might as well have been his reality.

A soft, warm hand closed firmly around his arm, pulling him slightly backward -- and Spike came fully awake in an instant, instinctively jerking away from the gently restraining grip.

Immediately, that grip became far less than gentle.

Buffy's other hand locked around his throat, yanking his damaged, sensitive body back against hers as she snarled in his ear, "You know better than to pull away from me, Spike!"

Every nerve in his body was on fire in one way or another, screaming out in agony as the raw, torn places on his back brushed against the coarse fabric of her shirt -- or taut with terror and begging for flight that was denied him. Somehow, Spike managed to fight back the panic, his body going utterly rigid -- but perfectly still -- in her cruel hands.

"That's it," she spoke softly into his ear, her voice deceptively soothing. "Relax, Sweetie -- I'm not gonna hurt you. Not unless you give me a reason. Okay?"

Spike nodded quickly, his head leaning back against her shoulder, as she released his throat and stretched up on her tiptoes to reach the chain that bound his wrists above his head.

All at once the strain and tension of his upraised arms vanished, as the chain was released, and Spike found to his misfortune that his exhausted, weakened legs could not support the weight of his own body. He would have fallen to the floor, but with her hand on his arm, and her other falling to wrap around his waist, he collapsed back against her instead -- and let out a nearly silent, painfully dry scream of agony as his back scraped against the buttons on Buffy's shirt.

His back arched in pain, and once more he nearly collapsed, the Slayer's strength holding him up for a moment, before she crouched down on the floor, carefully lowering him to his knees as she did, and letting him go, allowing him to fall forward with his face to the floor.

"Awww," she said in a voice that sounded like sincere sympathy, but was contradicted by the casually cruel brush of her fingertips up the length of his spine. "You're in pretty bad shape, aren't you, Baby?"

Spike shuddered, wincing in anguish at the aggravation of her touch against his severely abraded skin, but not daring to move at all.

"If I take the gag off you," Buffy asked calmly, running her fingers slowly, idly, through his hair. "Can you keep your mouth shut?"

It took him a moment to process what she had said through the pain and terror of her very presence, but he finally nodded weakly, not raising his face from the floor.

"Okay..." The Slayer's voice held a warning note, as she reached her hands up to unbuckle the gag. "...but if you make me regret this...you'll look back on the way you feel right now...as a pleasant memory. Is that clear, Sweetheart?"

Spike nodded again, swallowing hard as she removed the gag from his mouth and laid it aside. He swallowed again, almost convulsively, his mouth trying desperately to moisten his dry, irritated throat, and then gave up the attempt, drawing in several deep, gasping breaths as he struggled to calm himself.

"You hungry?"

Spike felt his heart lurch within him at the question, wondering wildly what the trick to it was -- what she would require of him to soothe the hunger that she had to *know* was raging within him at this point. Slowly, hesitantly, he nodded again, not raising his head.

"I thought so," she said, that false sympathy that sounded so near to true once again in her voice, as she ran her fingertips idly down his side, smoothing her palm over his bare, bruised bottom, and then resting it there in a carelessly possessive gesture that made him fight back a scream of pain. "I've got blood for you, Sweetheart," she informed him softly, drawing his attention immediately from his pain with the fragile promise of her words. "I'm just wondering..." she went on in a slow, devious sort of voice, "...if you're ready to earn it."

Spike felt his face flush with shame at the implications of her words, of her hand still resting on his body in a way that was far more personal than he was comfortable with at the moment. He hesitated, his pride warring with his hunger and desperation to escape this horrible situation he had somehow found himself in. He knew that the suggestion she was making placed him in the realm of a slave -- no, worse than a slave...a *whore*.

"Yeah -- but you're *my* whore," the Slayer whispered next to his ear in a tone of malicious mockery.

Spike flinched violently, caught off guard by her sudden closeness, as well as the frightening realization that he had unknowingly been whispering his thoughts aloud.

*Told me not to talk...bloody hell...no...she's gonna...she'll kill me...stupid, stupid...*

He steeled himself for more pain, as he sensed her backing off a bit, heard the sounds of her rising to her feet, her footsteps moving around until she was standing directly in front of him. She was quiet for a long moment, and without realizing that he had, Spike stopped breathing completely, his body trembling all over with apprehension, dreading the reaction he expected from her -- wishing he knew *what* to expect from her.

"So?" she said softly after a moment, and he could picture her standing there, one eyebrow raised expectantly, her arms crossed over her chest. "Are you going to earn your breakfast or not?"

Spike hesitated for just a moment, before nodding slowly in defeat, glad for the blindfold that kept his tears of shame from her sight.

"Good," she said in a voice of soft approval -- before her voice hardened and she ordered coldly, "Get up on your knees."

Shaking, Spike barely managed to push himself up on his bound hands in front of him, until he was kneeling in front of her, uncertain as to what to do next. Of course, he *knew* what to do next -- but he dared not act without her permission, her order, for fear of angering her and losing what little chance he had of the nourishment he needed -- and eventual escape.

His sense of smell told him that she had raised her skirt -- a moment before she caught hold of his hair and jerked his head forward under it, jarring his injuries painfully.

The Slayer let out a gasp of pleasure at the first contact, her hand fisting tightly in his hair, forcing his face closer to her, thrusting slightly forward against his mouth.

"Spike," she whispered breathlessly after a moment, her firm hand indicating to him that he was not to stop, "you even think of biting me..."

He jumped when he felt her foot slide up his leg, spreading her legs further -- though that was not her purpose. She pressed her foot lightly against his swollen, throbbing erection now resting just above his knees, pressing just hard enough to elicit a strangled moan of pain from Spike's lips.

She suddenly jerked him back for a moment, smiling down at his terrified expression, his trembling mouth, making his fear obvious to her despite the fact that his eyes were hidden.

"But you wouldn't do that -- would you, Sweetie?"

Spike shook his head rapidly, wincing as she increased the pressure just slightly, and gasping out in a desperate whisper, "No, Buffy -- no, please..."

"Shut up," the Slayer snapped, shoving his head back between her legs again, moaning out her pleasure as he did his best to please her.

He didn't know how he was possibly accomplishing it.

His mouth was painfully dry, his lips cracked and bleeding, and he felt that his strongest efforts, today, were pitifully weak -- not to mention the fact that his heart was nowhere close to being into the action he was being forced to perform. Even as he did his best to please her, employing every trick he had learned in a hundred and twenty years, Spike felt his heart sinking with the firm conviction that in the end, she would throw him aside, chain him up again with nothing, for failing to meet her demands.

But he *did* manage to accomplish it -- and with the breaking of the Slayer's swell of pleasure, something broke within him, a single word echoing through his mind again and again, accusing, deriding, in a voice that sounded very much like hers.

*Whore.*

Even as her release engulfed her, Buffy did not ease the grip she held on his hair, did not remove her foot from its threatening position against the evidence of his own desperate need. As she gradually came back to herself, he heard a low, throaty chuckle of satisfaction leave her throat.

"You're amazing, you know that?" she remarked in a tone of avid appreciation. "And you wonder why I'd never let you go!"

Spike swallowed back a sob, squeezing back tears behind the blindfold that chafed his face, not daring to speak a word -- knowing that anything he would have had to say would have earned him no less than a slap in the face.

Buffy crouched down in front of him, her warm hand firmly encircling his engorged member, eliciting a trembling gasp from his lips.

"You want me, don't you?" she sneered close to his ear, her hand slowly pumping against his sensitive, swollen flesh, forcing him to bite back a cry of distress, desperate to keep quiet as she had ordered.

Knowing what she expected of him, he nodded rapidly, desperately.

"See?" she whispered viciously, her thumb applying more intense pressure as she gripped his hair and jerked his head back, her warm breath falling against his throat as she went on, "Chained up -- my prisoner -- at my mercy -- and you still want me so bad you can't stand it." She smiled against his skin, kissing a soft line up his throat to his lips, before adding in a voice barely over a breath, "You *are* a whore."

She released him suddenly, all at once, leaving him aching for her to complete what she had started -- and hating himself for his own need, that was beyond his control.

"I'm going to get your blood now, Sweetheart. If you move while I'm gone," she suddenly said, her voice all at once hard and dangerous again, "even a single inch, Spike -- you'll get nothing when I come back. *Nothing*. Do you understand?"

Spike nodded. "Y-yes," he whispered, remembering what she had said about answering questions.

Without another word, she turned and left up the stairs he had heard her use the last time she had been down here -- wherever "here" was. Minutes later, she returned with a thermos of warm pig's blood, which she carefully helped him to drink, without freeing his wrists.

As she did, she spoke to him with a gentleness he had not seen in her since this ordeal had begun.

"You're mine, Spike," she told him softly, running her fingers affectionately through his hair as he drank gratefully from the thermos. "You're mine -- and I'll never let you go. By rights, I should kill you, Spike. You're lucky that I keep you around at all." She leaned in close, whispering with a brush of her lips against his skin that was almost a kiss, "You know you're only good for one thing..."

Spike nearly gagged on the blood he was drinking at those words, and Buffy laughed softly.

"You're going to know that, before I'm done with you. You're going to learn that you belong to *me*. And the only way you're going to get *anything* you need...blood...freedom...sex," she smirked, and he felt the heat of shame in his face, "the only way you're going to survive from day to day at all, Spike -- is by doing every...little...thing...I...say..."

Spike shuddered at the dark possessive tone of her voice, the certainty he heard in it of what she was saying, as the realization hit him again with a wave of overwhelming sickness and fear.

She really meant to do this to him.

And she *could*.

When she chained him up again from the ceiling a few minutes later, gagging him again and leaving him by way of the stairs -- Spike could not physically collapse, not with his body held taut by the painful restraints.

But inside -- he was broken, still kneeling on the floor, shaken by deep sobs of shame and despair.

************************************

"What are you doing tonight?"

Tara blinked in surprise, her hand nervously clutching the telephone receiver a bit tighter, as she tried to decide how best to respond.

Her heart had nearly pounded out of her chest when she had recognized Buffy's phone number on the caller ID -- and her fear had only been slightly eased when she had picked it up, and found that it was Dawn on the other end of the line.

"Um -- nothing," she answered uncertainly. "W-why?"

"Well -- I was just wondering if maybe -- I mean -- we haven't exactly done our -- Milkshake and Movie Night for a while..." The insecurity in the younger girl's voice pulled at Tara's heart, wearing down her resistance, though she knew that getting together with Dawn was not probably the wisest thing she could do, all things considered.

"Well -- I know," she slowly admitted. "And I miss it, too, Dawnie -- but -- I don't know. I don't want Buffy to -- to feel bad, you know? If we s-spend too much time together?"

"Please!" Dawn huffed, and Tara could hear the bitterness and hurt in her slightly trembling voice. "Like she'd even notice. It's not like she ever spends any time with me anyway." She was quiet for a moment, before finally adding in a voice barely over a whisper, and with a pleading note to it that Tara could not deny, "Please?"

Tara sighed, closing her eyes for a moment and lowering her head in defeat. "Okay," she said. "What time can I pick you up?"